


Drowning

by draconislock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode Fix-It: s04e03 The Final Problem, Fix-It, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Season/Series 04, The Final Problem, blanketjohn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9832121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draconislock/pseuds/draconislock
Summary: The well scene fix it





	1. Drowning

**Drowning**

  
“SHERLOCK? SHERLOCK?”  
The water was at John’s chin. His shouts for his friend were becoming more desperate, his groans more pleading. They bounced off the sides of the well; the echoes a constant reminder of how much trouble he was in. John was going to die. The cracks in the stone around him looked like mocking smiles and they would be the last thing he would see before it all went black. Water would fill his ears, the trickling would become a roar, then he would hear no more. The chains around his ankles were searing his skin but John didn’t care. The pain was keeping him lucid. A few seconds more and the water brushed against his bottom lip. Earth and metal swam into his mouth. The last thing he would taste would be bitterness.

“Sherlo-“ John tried to shout once more, but his cry was strangled by the rising water and the rasp turned into a gargle.

John was submerged. As a man of practicality, he knew not to fight the shackles. He couldn’t kick free with brute strength and trying to would only exhaust him, make him need air sooner. _No_ , even in dying John was a soldier. Discipline was hardwired into his system and he would call on it once more to keep still, to allow himself as long as possible.  _But what does one think about before they are going to die? What should his final thought be?_ Even when he needed it most, John’s mind failed him. Sherlock would never have had that problem- not knowing what to think. The man never had trouble thinking. _Of course, here I am dying and of course I’m thinking about that bastard_. Though there was only the flood to see it, a tight smile passed John’s lips.

Those lips were forced open by shock. A crushing against his spine made the air spill out of his lungs. Sherlock's steel grip was around John's middle, holding him above the water.

“John, breathe.” Sherlock instructed.

John didn't need to be told; he gulped in air. But even with his head bent backwards, the water was still caressing his face. John groaned.

“I’m going to get you out of here. But you’re going to have to hold your breath.”

John wasn’t listening, he trusted what Sherlock was saying was right. He was relishing in the oxygen touching his lungs, a feeling he hadn’t appreciated enough before.

“John. John.” Sherlock grabbed John’s jaw with his free hand and tilted his head forward. He kept cupping John’s face as he spoke. “After 3. Hold your breath. 1,2,3.” With a deep inhale, Sherlock disappeared. He ducked down under the water. Without Sherlock’s support, John sunk. He closed his eyes to stop them burning from the dirt and focused on nothing but holding his breath. But thinking about not being able to breathe just made John crave it more. It was the elephant in the room.

_Ok, think about something else. You’re going to get out of this, Sherlock is going to save you. The madman is going to save you._

As he thought of his best friend, the fierce grip on John’s back returned and John found himself out of the water and able to breathe again. The water had not stopped rising, and Sherlock had to stretch to keep both of their heads above water. He was off balance and needed the wall for support. John’s body stayed pressed to Sherlock's while they fought to catch their breaths. Underneath the dripping curls hanging loosely from Sherlock’s head, his eyes burned into John’s as he said, “1,2,3,” and let go once more. Sherlock dived back down. John could feel him working the chains. He kept his legs still to give Sherlock his best chance. He didn’t know if anything was happening, but John knew if someone could break him free, it would be Sherlock.

The burning came back quicker this time. Every cell in his body screamed. His fingertips started to tingle, and he stopped feeling the clattering against his ankles as the bottom of his legs went numb. Then the only feeling left was the fire in his chest. It was as though he was thawing and freezing all at once. He was ice and fire, there and not. Breathing and drowning. He felt too much, then he felt nothing at all.

 


	2. Death

**Death**  
Death was peculiar. It wasn’t as sudden as John had imagined. It didn’t crash over him, it didn’t consume him. It didn’t wrap him up and squeeze. Death hugged John; he could almost feel arms around him, arms that would never let him go. He didn’t feel trapped, he felt safe. Death was right and John was ready. There was less black than he expected. Shadows danced around his eyelids in all shades of grey. The flickerings put on a show as they morphed into beings.

“Harry?” John heard his own voice, but didn’t feel the words in his throat. Death was effortless.

“I’m right here, John.” There she was. She was sitting on the end on John’s childhood bed, though her feet didn’t dangle off the edge like they had when the pair were younger. Her feet were planted on the floor, as she took John by the hand and urged him to sit next to her. John could feel her eyes burning into the side of his face, but he couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere other than forward. He focused his gaze on his desk, a place he had spent countless nights cramming all he needed to know to get him into Medicine. No revision notes were there now, only his dog tags and they were covered with dust. They were laid next to the skull from 221b, the one John had essentially replaced.

“You’re more than an object to bounce ideas off. He thinks more of you than that skull, John. So much more.” Harry’s voice was crystal. She wasn’t slurring her words, she wasn’t getting angry or aggressive. She was all there, exactly where John needed her.

“How do you know? You’ve never seen us together.”

“I don’t need to see you together to know. I’ve been on the other end of the phone when he’s come in the room. I’ve seen the photos in the paper. I _do_ read the comments on your blog. Plus, he did hunt me down when you moved in together. Convinced me to get sober.”

“Huh? Really? That was Sherlock?” John feigned surprised. He had always suspected as much.

“I couldn’t possibly say, this is all in your head, John.” John turned to look at Harry then, and she giggled, just like she so often had when they were children. “You believe the man can move mountains so no wonder you attributed the impossible task, of your sister getting clean, to him. You know he would do it for you.”

“You sound like him, deducing me.”

“No, John. You sound like him.” Harry jabbed John in the temple as she spoke. “All in here.”

“So, this really isn’t real?”

“Nope. You’re just dying, and this is the last conversation you’ve given yourself. I wonder why.”

“This sounds like one of our cases.”

  
“The mystery of why he chose you. You, John Watson, ex-soldier, doctor, nothing extraordinary. The case of why the brilliant detective let you into his world of madness.”

“I guess I’ll never know.”

“You could always just-“

“WAKE UP. JOHN, WAKE UP. Please John, please.”

John’s bedroom started spinning. The pictures on the walls, and the drawings he’d once created, started to come loose from their pins. They crashed to the floor and the glass of their frames shattered. Dust from the dog tags, dust from the shelves, it jumped up and gathered in the air and John struggled to breathe. It burned, _oh god it burned_. Harry hadn’t moved, she simply gave John’s hand a little squeeze. The room calmed in response. Everything stopped vibrating and rumbling. The scraps of John’s youth, his old jumpers, photos with old friends, they stopped spilling from the cupboards and floated in mid-air. They were hanging on the answer to one simple question.

“Is this it? Am I going to die?” The skull rolled like a marble across John’s desk. It hit the floor and continued to move until it thudded against John’s foot. Harry picked it up, held it in front of her face and pretended to make it speak.

“That’s up to you-“

“JOHN. JOHN.”

The skull flew out of Harry’s grip and exploded into thousands of pieces. Harry let go of John’s hand and cradled her own face, sobbing. She cried harder than she ever had from falling from a swing set, more frantic than drunken mistakes had made her. John tried to inch closer to her but the posts of the bed were trembling, and John’s entire body shook in response.

“I’m so sorry, Harry. For everything.” John shouted against the noise of the world splitting in two.

“Me too, John, especially for this.” Harry said, as she lifted the hand that had once been holding John’s and punched him right in the heart.


	3. Alive

**Alive**

John couldn’t see his bedroom any longer. Perhaps the whole building had crumbled. He felt like a house had fallen on top of him. He couldn’t lift his arms and his legs were definitely trapped. He felt heavier than he ever had before.

Droplets of water were splashing onto his face. He was still in the well, he wasn’t done dying yet. The cold under his back was the stone wall of his tomb.

_Be a soldier, John._

He listened to the voice that came at him from all angles. The voice started in his head but ricocheted off his body. He listened. John was a soldier and he would face death with open eyes. He would look at the water as it continued to fall.

_Why was it falling, when it should have been rising? Had the entire world inverted?_

John’s sight was blurred. He blinked to refocus the world but the cloud of black wouldn’t shift. The dripping tickled his cheek and he moved to wipe the water away. The motion made the shadow jump back. A black mop of hair sat on top of a face so pale, the moon had competition.

“John?” Sherlock whispered. Water continued to fall from his hair, continued to rain from his eyes.

The stillness didn’t last. The storm replaced the calm. The hold in Sherlock broke and he pounced towards John. His grip wound around John’s neck and pulled, urging John to sit up.

“John, breathe. Just breathe. Please, don’t stop breathing.”

Like always when Sherlock spoke, John could do nothing but listen. 

“With me, John.” Sherlock exaggerated his inhales and exhales into a pattern John could follow. They were deep enough to drown in. John thought he might have just done so, if it wasn’t for Sherlock’s voice. "Stay with me." Sherlock’s forehead against his was all that he felt as he gave into the blackness for the second time that night.


	4. Living

**Living**

Coming around the next time was nothing short of hazy. Blue flashing lights cast a psychedelic glow around the scene and John wondered if he’d been given any drugs. There were no needles plugged into his arms. The only oddity attached to his skin were the bony fingers intertwined with his. Sherlock was tapping his thumb against John’s, though John knew that for once his restlessness did not stem from boredom. John returned a tap to subdue Sherlock’s worry.

Sherlock leapt from his seat on the ambulance bench, “John.” Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair, pushing the damp silver from out of his eyes. “John, can you hear me?”

John blinked furiously. “I can always hear you Sherlock, because you never bloody shut up.” John’s voice was hoarse. Even as he struggled to speak, Sherlock didn’t interrupt him.

John's joke didn't soothe Sherlock. He didn't remove his hand from John’s hair, nor release his hold on his palm. The cool blue of Sherlock's eyes were lost to the black of his pupils, an intensity John had only ever seen in the man when he was high. Despite being soaked from head to toe, every fibre of John's being was alight. He had never been more dulled, but never more alive. John couldn't hold the stare, and he shifted to sit up.

A frown passed over Sherlock’s brow, “I think you ought to lie down, John.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Your lungs could start filling at any point, that is less than fine.” Sherlock placed a hand over John’s chest and urged him to lie down.

“Who’s the doctor here?”

“Who’s also the patient?”

“Sherlock. Bloody hell, help me up.”

Sherlock sighed but for once, the detective listened to instructions. He curved one palm around the back of John’s neck and helped him into a sitting position. John’s chest roared with a cough. It sounded wet, it sounded injured, it sounded like the bottom of a well.

“No, no, no. Not fine at all.” Sherlock started to pace in front of the hospital bed. “I’m getting the paramedic.”

“But you think they’re all idiots.” John protested. “You think second opinions are pointless.”

“Not when it comes to you.”


	5. After

**After**

John struck a deal with Sherlock. He would be checked over by the paramedic, and once he was given the all clear, which he would be, he would be allowed to leave the ambulance. That’s how John ended up sat next to Sherlock in a blanket, their backs pressed against a wall. They watched the world they usually walked in, the police cars, Lestrade, Mycroft, cases, criminals. They observed it from the side lines, with their hands curled together.

“Why drowning?” Sherlock drew out the question, the way he did when he’d been mulling something over for a while. Something he couldn’t quite deduce on his own.

“Are you asking me why I was drowning, er, I don’t know, perhaps because your batshit crazy sister put me in a well.” John’s laugh dissolved into a cough.

“You’re not going to get over this quickly are you? Which adds to my question. I’ve seen you nearly be blown to pieces in a swimming pool, I’ve seen you think you were going to be blown to pieces in an underground car, held at gunpoint, shot at gunpoint. But, drowning, you sounded more,” John could feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into him, “scared. You sounded terrified.”

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock, I am well keyed up on the most pleasant ways to die. Drowning, not so pleasant.”

“No, that’s not it.” Sherlock hadn’t stopped staring at John and John knew he wasn’t going to until he got his answer. He was a junkie craving a fix.

John looked down at their hands, for once understanding Sherlock’s desire for solving puzzles. He didn’t know what would be after, or how to go on from here. His mind was a mess, a jumble he’d never been good at working out. All he knew was when he looked down at their hands the burning returned to his chest. He needed to know why.

John cleared his throat. “I was terrified, Sherlock.” John still hadn’t turned to face Sherlock, but he could feel the man watching every shape his lips made. He took a deep breath. “I was terrified you wouldn’t hear me.” John was speaking slowly through tightly drawn lips, forcing every inch of control he had into his words. “All the other times, you were there. Not this time. I was terrified… I was terrified, terrified, I wouldn’t see you again.” John’s breath was shallow; the pressure in his head was immense.

Sherlock remained quiet, though he didn’t withdraw his hand from John’s. Sherlock ran his hand up John’s arm, and pressed his fingertips into John’s bicep. His grip was steel and ice. It joined the fire in John, and coaxed him to turn around. Sherlock’s eyes were tearing through John’s as he leaned in to the doctor.  

Whenever Sherlock whispered, his voice turned to thunder. "From day one, that was never an option." 

Without hearing the words, John knew why.


End file.
